


Wyvern's Fire

by letteraM



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Blood, Masturbation, Multi, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 20:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14409948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letteraM/pseuds/letteraM
Summary: "Isn't it crazy how slaying just always makes you hungry and horny?" - Faith LehaneIn which Geralt goes on a questthen tries to catch some rest,but a weird bio hazardwill make things a bit hard.





	Wyvern's Fire

Geralt of Rivia was covered, head to toe, in wyvern blood. With a kick, he opened the door of the abandoned windmill he was using as makeshift base, stepped inside in the dusty shadows of the sunset that filtered through the barricaded windows, and dragged and dropped the monster's decapitated head on the floor. It bonked loudly, and rested on its side, propped up on a fang, its eyes half closed and its mouth half opened, similar to a lazy tiger that just started to nap. A huge, scaly tiger, if that; its teeth looked like ale tankards.

Muttering three words under his breath, Geralt casted a minor spell, and the candles scattered in small bunches around the millstone flickered to life, radiating a warm light around the central room of the windmill. Geralt put down his swords and satchel, sat down on a crate, and removed his breastplate, and then, stiffly, his leather buff coat. Blood, both his and the wivern's, made it stick to his skin, and his left shoulder was sending sharp stabs of pain every time he tried to raise his arm over his head. He turned the breastplate and kept it at a side, to check in its reflection how badly was the wound on his shoulder. It wasn't pretty, but not even bad; he only needed to clean and dress it, and soon it would become one more of his hundreds of scars.

The fight itself hadn't been either pretty or bad, and the shoulder wound was the only cut the wyvern managed to inflict him. The witcher had the upper hand from the start, managing to surprise the sleeping wyvern in its rocky nest perched on a cliff, and badly injuring one of his wings with an explosive arrow. The monster, enraged at the attack and being incapable of flying away, made a show of roaring and hissing at Geralt, who was quickly under its neck; it tried slashing his face with its tail, but the witcher caught it with his elbow, and stepped on it. The wyvern tried to pin down Geralt with a talon, and even managed to pierce his shoulder with a claw, just as Geralt's silver sword found an entry point between the scales at the side of the wyvern's neck. Geralt pushed it in, deep, and the draconid's roar mixed with the scraping of the blade against bone, and gradually became more gurgly and feeble. Blood, thick and deep purple, spurted from the gash, spraying on the witcher's head, and then oozing from the wyvern's mouth. It trickled down Geralt's arm, feeling warm on his hand still clutching the sword plunged to the hilt in the monster's neck, it soaked his clothes as the wyvern's breathing slowed and stopped, and its huge body began to drop lifeless on him. With the beast dead, Geralt unhooked his shoulder from the claw, and squirmed under its wings, climbed on top of it, put one foot over its forehead, and pulled the sword out.

Then, in the windmill, Geralt set to clean himself: he dragged a large tin tub near the candles, and tried another spell to fill it with hot water, but it required a simple snap of his fingers, which were too covered in congealed blood to snap effectively. He paused a moment, before licking them clean, one by one, and snapped again. The bath filled by itself, and Geralt looked at his reflection amidst the rising steam: his messy state and his narrowed pupils made him look like an albino panther that just emerged from the ribcage of a bull. _All this mess for an unpaid job_ , he though, _when will I ever learn to mind my own business?_

The witcher was sent on this task by a couple of farmers he met the night before, when he was wandering in the southern area of Temeria, looking for clues that could lead him to Yennefer. The woman had seen him riding past their farm, and recognizing the two swords Geralt carried on his back, she called him for help. The farmers had horses, a good sturdy breed, but some flying monster has been reducing their numbers.

"A dragon did 'tis, m'lord," said the man, a beefy man with ginger unkept beard. "At night I hear the screams and run outside and see it flying away!" He made a wooshing motion with one large hand; despite his wide shoulders, he had a dumb expression that made everything he said and did seem childish.

"A _wyvern_ did this," replied Geralt, kneeling over a mauled carcass. "A real dragon would have burned them to a crisp before eating them. Wyverns don't breath fire."

"M'lord, you gonna charge us much for help?" asked his wife, a comely young woman, black hair kept in a braid; would she let it free, she might even have looked a bit like Yennefer. "We haven't much to give you, but sure we can..."

The witcher got up to his feet, while the farmer was trying to pronounce _wyvern_ correctly, with little success. "If it's hunting here, it must have nested near. I'll hunt it, and I won't charge you. After the horses it would come for you, and then it would go to the nearest village. Better just end this right now."

The farmer's wife kept thanking him and nudging her husband in the side. "See? M'lord Witcher will help us, I told ya he would! Thanks, M'lord, and may luck with be with ya! So brave! And for free!". She was almost jumping with joy and excitement; life would get boring fast, here all alone with the horses and her man.

After a couple hours of scouting, Geralt had already thought of possible locations for the nest along the high sea cliffs, and he quickly found its scent; it was a young one, probably having just left the group of its similars that lived on the western rocky islands, and was making its first nest. The witcher took a couple of potions to enhance his reflexes and stamina, and silently climbed down the cliff, to slay the sleeping beast.

Cutting its head off took him more time than the whole fight, and when it was done, Geralt simply pushed the rest of the body down the cliff, into the greenish sea. Valuable as it was, he still couldn't be bothered to drag it up the cliff and to the next village to be sold, and leaving it here to rot would have attracted larger and nastier beasts. The head would have make a fine trophy, and he tought of carving a dagger hilt out of its fangs; he'd give it to Yennefer, as soon as he could find her.  
He wondered what the farmer and his wife would have done, had he brought them the whole wyvern's corpse. Sure they could have made some pretty money from it, but the people trading in draconid products were greedy and ruthless, and chances were the farmers would have gotten murdered even before managing to sell its tail. Still, Geralt could imagine how wide-eyed they'd be, seeing such a beast dragged on their front door, like an orca stranded on a beach. It has caused terror over them for months, but it surely was a majestic view, when incapacitated. The farmer would have lifted the wyvern's jowl to check its teeth, and his wife would have run her finger over the bloodied muzzle, enchanted by its fearful symmetry.

Beside witchers, not many people knew how powerful effects the fresh blood of these southern wyverns had over humans: its smell, metallic and spicy, was more enticing than a freshly baked meat pie, and tasting a few drops was enough to drive both sexes into an orgiastic frenzy for hours, often ending in sore flesh and even heart failures. Geralt's mutated genetics shielded him from it, but still, he got doused in it, it spurted on his open wound, he even licked some; _that could have some effect_ , he thought, after cleaning and bandaging his pierced shoulder. His hand moved slowly down his chest and abdomen, and he knew he was getting hard even before his fingers reached the front of his breeches. He squeezed it once, and it throbbed back against his touch. He removed his breeches, and stepped naked into the bath, his dick swinging low between his thick legs.

Geralt took a bowl and used it to pour water over his head, and as water mixed with blood and assorted gore trickled down his firm rugged chest, he watched himself reflected in the discarded breastplate. His white hair got a pink hue from the mess, something he reminded himself not to tell Dandelion, whenever he'll be telling him about his latest adventures. He would also leave out the raging boner he was having, even if he was sure Dandelion would have been very interested in these sordid details. Geralt lied back in the tin bath, and images of Yennefer swarmed in his brain. Yennefer kissing him, Yennefer undressing, Yennefer bending over him, sitting on his groin to feel his erection, Yennefer screaming, Yennefer disappearing gods know where. Geralt cursed and banged a fist on the tin tub. The water had started to turn purple, the same color of his dick head, which had began to show through his foreskin, as his boner kept growing and emerging out of the water. Something had to be done about it. It has been too much since his last brothel, and, even without the wyvern incident, he lately found himself getting hard too often just by riding his horse. Roach would probably start complaining about it soon. He let his mind wandered off back to the farmers, getting horned up, licking blood right off the wyvern's mouth. _Fine_ , he though, _that'll work_.

He pictured the farmer's wife mounting on the beast's head as if she was on horse back, rubbing herself on it and lifting her dress, little moans unwillingly escaping her mouth. He imagined the farmer, running his hands on his dumb face and smearing it with blood, the tent growing in his pants. They would have gone right out of their mind and ignored the witcher, stripping of their clothes and becoming more beasts than humans. The farmer would get down in front of the monster, and would start licking the woman's pussy, his face buried between her legs, hungry for her pleasure, as his boner hit rhythmically on the scales. She'd grab him by his hair and thrust him deeper, begging for his tongue, damping his beard with her wetness, her back arching, and her hair draping over the shiny red eyes of the wivern.

Geralt took a glance at the trophy on the floor, which seemed to smirk in the flickering candle light; a small poodle of blood shone under it. "I bet you would have liked that ending, huh?", he said to it. "Well, instead you'll have to settle for this." He pushed his hips out of the water, grabbed the base of his cock and waved it at the wyvern's head. Purplish drops of water fell around the bath. Geralt pulled the foreskin all the way down, and, pushing his thumb at the base of his cock, kept it vertical. It was thick as a sword hilt, curving a little upwards, a couple of blue veins bulging along its length, a smooth purple head at the top, and a crown of furry white hair at its base. He rubbed a finger on his dick-hole, then moved it down the backside, feeling its tightening foreskin, the base of the glans, then all the way down, slowly, until he reached his balls. He cupped them in his hand, pulled them once and then pushed them close to the base of his erection, his other hand wrapping his dick in a fist, daring the meat to become even harder. It felt like it did. Geralt let go of his balls, which splashed back in the bath water, and traced his way back to his dick-hole, this time finding it got slimier with precum, which he rubbed on his dickhead. He sloshed back in the bath, dangled his legs out of the rim of it, found a comfortable position for his wounded shoulder, and grabbed his cock with both hands, one at the base and the other over it, still leaving out a good bit of shaft and the glans, which rose out of the water, like a naughty purple lotus flower. Geralt closed his eyes, and started pumping his cock.

In his head, the farmer was positioning his own fat dick at the entrance of the woman's pussy, while she was trashing about, impatient. He entered in one movement, steadily but not fast, and she gasped and clasped the scales tight. He began to fuck her slowly and deeply, as if he was making sure there would be enough room to slide with the right amount of friction. Her legs raised up, her feet resting on her man's pectorals, she took short breaths with her mouth open; when he started sucking on her toes, she seemed already on the verge of cumming. They were completely absorbed in the act, and working like two pieces of a perfect mechanism, speeding up. Geralt imagined himself pacing behind the couple, taking in the view of the man's tanned sculpted body covered with sweat and blood, muscles flicking under his skin, two dangling balls slapping with each precise thrust and his round ass clenching, the woman's skin prickled all over, offering her jiggling heavy breasts to her husband's hands. The smell of sex and death getting stronger, and the couple's grunts and moans and slapping sounds getting louder.

Geralt in the bath, on the other hand, was making more splashing sounds, and the purplish water was stormed by the furious motion of his masturbation. He was going at it with his right hand, long and fast strokes, which he liked to improve by tightening his grip when he was at the base, and twisting his hand around the head when he was at the top. His left hand was playing with a nipple, and he has started to bite his lower lip.

He imagined himself jerking off there in front of the couple, while they were fucking at a speedy pace, until the women, between moans, would ask him to get closer. He would step to her side, his hard cock at level with her eyes, and he would pretend to don't understand what her wide open mouth would be needing. At this point she would be having an orgasm every five minutes or so. He would simply keep jerking off, until she'd grab it with a shaky hand and bring it close to her lips. She'd try to swallow it whole, and probably get stuck halfway, breathless from the fucking, just keeping the witcher's dick in her mouth, mumbling and lapping around her tongue. Geralt would caress her blushing face, taking her small jaw in his hand, and starting to fuck her mouth in small movements, in time with her ragged breathing. He would then turn to look at the farmer, and while not even the most jealous lover could protest against the frenzy caused by the wyvern blood, the man would have his eyes glued to the blowjob happening there. _Sure, guys like that one usually need some mental nudge before they let themselves go_ , a still logical part of Geralt's brain thought, _but since this is a fantasy, no need for spells_. The witcher would just need to push the farmer's head down a little, and he'd lower himself over his wife's body, until he could get his mouth on the side of Geralt's cock.

Thinking of two tongues working on his boner, Geralt licked his palm to let his hand work faster. His boner was hard as tempered steel, and almost hot as molten iron, and stroking it felt so good; he looked at it lovingly, grabbed his balls again and groaned with pleasure. He thought about how the farmer would suck on them, getting one in his mouth and letting the other rest on his beard, still pounding hard his wife. He would even bite them, lightly at first, but to avoid any trouble, the witcher would turn his head to the shaft, and let the farmer get his turn at getting throat fucked. Geralt would get his fingers on her red-hot pussy, slap her clit and then grabbing the farmer's dick with two fingers, sending him over the edge; he'd give a couple of powerful, deep thrusts, and, with a roar similar to the wyvern's, he'd cum. The witcher's fingers would feel each shot building up in the man's cock, and when he'd keep pounding, he'd feel the cum sliding out of the wife's pussy. Geralt would then stroke his boner with the man's cum, and then let the couple lick it clean, with their tongues fighting and sliding over his cock. The farmer would still be pounding his wife, not so frenzied anymore, but their mind would be melting into unconsciousness.

As Geralt let one finger wander down, between his butt cheeks, he imagined sitting on the woman's face, getting her to rim his ass, while he slapped the man's face with his dick. He would quickly stroke as his dickhead rubbed on the farmer's beard, let the wife's tongue slid deep into him, and then cum into the farmer's open mouth. Swallowing the best he could, some drops falling over the women's tits, they'll keep fucking, unable to stop until there's energy in their bodies...

Geralt felt his real orgasm arriving too, all his muscles contracted as he arched his back and pushed his hips out of the water again. His right hand was a blur, as he kept jerking off, holding his breath, until he shot seven thick ropes of cum, groaning loudly each time. He felt them splatter on his chest, and the orgasm exploded in his brain like a fire spell cast by a god, burning in every nerve of his body. He dropped back in the bath, catching his breath, and rolled his head to the side to look at the wyvern's head, grinning. "Hope... you had as much fun... as I did", he said to it, and then felt something sticky hanging from his mustache. Geralt stuck his tongue out, and licked away the drop of cum. It tasted metallic and spicy.

 

After cleaning himself from everything, and with still a pinkish hue in his hair, Geralt slept like a log; in the morning he scraped the congealed blood from the wyvern's head, gave it a rinse in the now cold bath, then packed his things, hung the trophy on Roach's saddle, and rode back to the farmers. The farmer's wife was outside the hut, and as soon as she noticed him, waved and approached the horse.

"It's done. You are safe. I also have something for you." Geralt pressed in her hand a tiny pouch filled with powder. "It's  _Wyvern's fire_ ." he whispered to her. "To have a fun night, just a pinch, in his food. Not too often, understand?" She nodded, with wide eyes, and hid the pouch in her sleeve. "T-thank you, M'Lord, many blessings over...", but the witcher had already turned his horse, and was heading towards the road.

He was almost setting Roach to gallop, when he overheard a manly voice asking "Did he kill the  _waiverin_ ?". Geralt smiled, and rode off to the east.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! This is the first time I publish some porny fanfic for people to read, so please feel free to leave any kind of comment and/or critique.


End file.
